


knock me out

by queendromeda



Series: stuck in the jet wash [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bruce Wayne is a Disaster, Developing Friendships, F/F, First Meetings, Gen, House Party, Selina Kyle is a Gift, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 16:32:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14958147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queendromeda/pseuds/queendromeda
Summary: The girl with the curly hair was glaring at him. "Where's Bridgit?"Bruce blinked at her. The urgency that was lining her question felt dulled by Depeche Mode blaring through the frat house. She was very pretty. Furious, but pretty. He licked his lips, clearing away the blood the was drying on the corner of his mouth. "Who?"Her nostrils flared.





	knock me out

**Author's Note:**

> I listened to a ridiculous amount of 80s synth-pop while writing this. It really sets the tone. Anyways, maraschino red was super-well received so I guess I'm continuing to play around in this AU.

The linoleum in the bathroom was sticky, pulling at the soles of Bruce's Magnanni loafers with every half-step he made. What the floors were sticky with, he didn't want to know, but the vanity looked clean by association, so he barely hesitated in planting his hands against the laminate counter, nobly ignoring the specks of blood and vomit that stained the inside of the sink. A quick look at his reflection reminded him just how fucked he was.

He _knew_ coming to the party was a bad idea. He'd only arrived out of spite — he'd heard Tommy Elliot talking shit with his entourage of Business major yes-men — _but_ , it's like, once he was here he was passed a red solo cup filled with Corona Light and _naturally_ had to top it off, that's just, like, party etiquette. And then he ended up huddled in some frat boy's bedroom with five strangers and a bottle of peppermint schnapps, and, okay—

That is where things start to get a bit fuzzy.

Bruce thinks that one of the girls he met — named something like Bethany or Brittney or Bridgit — took him back to living room. She was trying to get him to meet one of her friends, promising that they'd _hit it off_ , but then Tommy Elliot pushed his way over to them, and the girl took one look at his posturing and fled, and Bruce wasn't _entirely_ sure who threw the first punch, but the shitty woven carpet definitely had new stains on it.

He risked a look in the mirror.

It could have been worse, but Bruce was still endlessly thankful that he no longer had to go home to Alfred who would have been vocally furious about the state of his ward. His eyes were bloodshot, glassy, and his face was sickly under the fluorescent lighting, and there was a steady trail of blood leading out of his nose. He'd come out of the fight relatively unscathed. A few of his ribs might have been bruised, every breath he took in hurt, but he could totally sit his Women's Studies final tomorrow without half of the class looking at him in thinly veiled apprehension.

He rubbed at his eyes, already feeling a headache building up, which, really, was unfair considering he'd _barely_ started to feel buzzed. It's like. He was already a trust fund kid with chips on both his shoulders and more trauma than any of his psychiatrists were able to deal with. He's self-aware. Mostly. It would just be, like, _cool_ , if life could throw him a fucking one once in a while. If he had to lock himself in some frat houses dated and, frankly, disgusting bathroom, because Tommy Elliot didn't know how to bury a hatchet from their Freshman fucking year of high school, he should be able to do it without being forcibly reminded of his inevitable hangover.

Like—

 _Fuck off_.

 

 

Outside of the bathroom, the shitty synth-pop playlist was still going strong. Bruce groaned. He wanted to go back out and drown his sorrows in another cheap beer. He _wouldn't_. But, meeting his own blurry gaze in the mirror, he _really_ wanted to.

He stumbled back into the party with the confidence of someone who knew he'd get his ass kicked if the wrong person saw him. Not that he thought Tommy's trope of Ralph Lauren model wannabe's would be able to get the upper hand, but getting in two fights within an hour felt a bit avant-garde even for him. Besides, he really didn't want to end up in tomorrow's copy of the Gotham Gazette. Alfred would lose his shit and force him to visit the family crypt, all while waxing on about his family legacy and, honestly, he'd rather just deal with a trip to rehab.

Anyways.

He'd managed to weave his way through the crowds of people easily enough and made it to the kitchen without any hassle. It was as close to empty as anywhere in the house would be, though he wasn't too worried about the group of Freshmen coughing around a dab pen in the corner or the girl sitting on the windowsill reading Emily Dickinson.

Pushing himself up onto the grimy counter — seriously had no one in the house heard of Lysol? — Bruce gave himself a moment.

It would be easy to leave, he thought. Just remove himself from the situation and avoid escalating things further. Only, he didn't want to leave. He _wanted_ to burrow his way under Tommy's skin. He _wanted_ a fight. His fingers twitched just thinking about it. Once, when he was still in high school, one of his psychiatrists told him he needed to find healthier outlets for his anger. And he'd tried. Sort of. But painting or smashing junkyard cars or clay pigeon shooting just didn't have the same _buzz_ as a fight — all soft skin and gnashing teeth and a complete catharsis of self. There was something violent in his blood that scared him. Something that bloomed when his knuckles were cracked and bleeding.

 

 

The relative peace in the kitchen was shattered by the entrance of a girl who looked like the type of person who drank straight whiskey without flinching. She was pretty. Green eyes and curly hair and pink lips, shimmering with lip gloss that felt a bit out of place with the rest of her _bad bitch_ vibe. Bruce watched her in vague interest, hardly raising an eyebrow when she grabbed a grabbed an empty bottle of Popov and smashed it on the ground.

"All of you," she said, stepping over the glass and planting herself in front of Bruce, "Get out."

The Freshmen in the corner and the girl on the windowsill started at her in shock.

She clapped her hands together. " _Scram_!"

And so they did.

Bruce rolled his left shoulder, feigning disinterest. He had a lot of practice with that. Still, he couldn't help but wonder what he could have done to make her so angry. He was positive they'd never met before.

"Where's Bridgit?" She asked, without any preamble, glaring.

Bruce blinked at her. The urgency that was lining her question felt dulled by Depeche Mode blaring in the background, traveling throughout the frat house. She really was pretty. Furious, but pretty. He licked his lips, clearing away the blood that was drying on the corner of his mouth. "Who?"

Her nostrils flared. "Bridgit," she ground out, drawing the syllables out slowly. "Tall, dark hair, probably smells like an ashtray. She was wearing, I don't know... A fucking floral button down? Ringing any bells?"

"Oh." His brow furrowed. A fuzzy memory was pushing its way through the fog in his head. "Yeah, actually. I think I know who you're talking about. Last I saw she was in the living room."

"And you just _left_ her there?"

He bristled at that. As if some random girl whose name he could hardly remember was his responsibility. He took a deep breath. "Look. She was taking me to meet one of her friends. A fight started. She ran off. Sorry, for not keeping tabs on — Brianna, or whatever. I was kind of preoccupied."

"Bridgit," the girl repeated, her fingers digging into the oversized sleeves of her leather jacket. "Not Brianna. _Bridgit_. Just because you apparently can't keep your shit together when getting beat up, doesn't mean—"

" _Excuse me_? I think I did more of the beating. Have you seen Tommy Elliot?"

Her lip curled. "If I've seen one boneheaded frat boy I've seen them all. And," she let her eyes travel up and down his body, "I've seen you."

"Oh?" Bruce tilted his head to the side. "Like what you see?"

She scoffed. "Fuck off."

He offered a lazy smile. "I would, but there's some dick of Tarantino wannabe blocking my way."

For a moment, Bruce really thought that douchebag act would work and the girl would leave him alone. It should have worked. He'd been perfecting it since his parents died. People were less likely to throw pity around if they didn't like you, and nobody liked arrogant twelve-year-olds who wasted the money his dear, sweet parents left for him on things like a horse ranch — _because, Missus Spencer, it's just so unfair that Donny Valesquez gets to have a horse and I don't_. _I mean I have more money than him anyways. How is that fair_?

Instead of whirling around and storming off in distaste like he expected, the girl placed her hands on her hips and rolled her eyes, looking more exhasperated than angry. "There's no way you're a Tarantino fan."

She was right, but he still felt affronted. "And what does that mean?"

"It _means_ that you're wearing a cashmere turtleneck at a frat party, _and_ look like you listen to folk music."

"Neither of those things, in any way, mean I can't like Tarantino."

She raised an eyebrow. "Do you?"

Bruce grimaced. "No. But just because your right, doesn't mean that generalizations are ever okay, and — actually, wait. _Why_ are we talking about this?"

The girl ignored his question. "You're an asshole, but, like, a self-made one."

"What?" he asked, blinking in confusion.

She continued as if he hadn't spoken. " _And_ you're gonna help me find Bridgit."

"Am I?" Bruce asked, his head spinning at the girl's change in attitude. If there was ever a time for Corona Light, this was it. "And why am I doing that?"

"Because," she said, smiling — and she had a really nice smile, all crinkling eyes, and white teeth and dimples. "Underneath your shitty cologne, you're not as big of an asshole as you pretend to be, are you?"

He froze. There was no way, absolutely no way, that some asshole of a girl, in a ratty leather jacket, was making him feel — he didn't really know. Something that was twisting and warm and shattering, coiling around in his stomach, making his fingers shake and his throat ache. The very idea was fucking absurd.

Also. His cologne was _not_ shitty.

Bruce closed his eyes. He was so fucked.

 

 

The girl, who introduced herself as Selina Kyle, was apparently the designated driver for her friends that night, and Bridgit, who he'd met earlier when sharing that bottle of peppermint schnapps, was the only friend she couldn't account for. Her panic, he decided, was fair. He wouldn't trust any of the guys in the house any more than he could throw them, especially the ones that attached themselves to Tommy like well-dressed leeches. Even so, there was something that felt weird about Selina's panic. There was an edge to it that he couldn't explain.

Bruce rubbed the back of his neck as he followed Selina around a corner, ducking his head down to avoid catching anyone's attention — not like that was too difficult, since nearly everyone was wasted by now. He envied them. His buzz had died off back in the kitchen.

"Okay, so you last saw her here?" she asked, shoving into his personal space to be heard above the Eurythmics that was blasting from the speakers.

"Yeah," he said. "She disappeared when Tommy came over to start shit."

Selina frowned. "Bridgit doesn't deal with confrontation well. She would have tried to find someone she knows, but, _obviously_ , she didn't find me. And Ivy and Ecco, our other friends, said that they hadn't seen her either. But they're both on, like, acid trips right now, so I don't know if that's true or not."

"If she couldn't find someone she knows what would she do?"

"Probably find somewhere less crowded to hang around? I don't know. _Fuck_ , I shouldn't have wandered off on my own."

"Don't do that," Bruce said, "Blaming yourself for shit you can't control is, like, drinking bleach. But for your soul. Or, whatever. We'll find her."

Selina groaned. "Easy for you to say. Have you ever dealt with shit more pressing than your trust fund?"

It was rhetorical, and he really wasn't in the mood for a heart-to-heart with a stranger in a frat house on the Sunday before finals week, so he bit back the snappish comment on his tongue and pursed his lips.

He let the silence simmer around them for a moment before he changed the subject. "How'd you know that I was with Bridgit earlier? When you burst into the kitchen?"

"Oh," she blinked fuzzily, like she'd forgotten about that, and licked her lips absentmindedly. Which, he thought, was distracting. "She sent me a picture of you. She thought we'd hit it off, or something."

"Funny," he said, pretending his cheeks didn't feel warm. "Did she think you'd actually hit me?"

Selina snorted. "She thinks I need more friends. _Normal_ friends."

And, _no_ , Bruce wasn't going to touch that one with a twelve-foot-pole. Instead, he ran a hand over his eyes, wondering why he always ended up caring so damn much, and said, "She seems sweet."

"She is," Selina agreed, sounding softer than he could have ever imagined, and it was like a lightbulb went off over his head. Suddenly, things made a lot more sense.

He grabbed her shoulder, half to comfort her and half to gain her attention, and asked, "Do you think she'd go back to a place that was familiar? Like I met her in one of the upstairs bedrooms. It'd probably be pretty empty. Think its worth a look?"

Slowly, she nodded. "Yeah. _Yeah_. That's a good idea." Selina looked at him consideringly for a moment, before tapping him on the arm. "Lead the way, trust fund."

 

 

The room was, as he expected, empty. Everything inside was a disaster. Clothes were spilled out all over the place, there were empty beer cans on the floor, along with the empty bottle of schnapps, and all of the decorations felt a little crooked. It was impossible to tell which part of the mess was from the guests and which part came from the frat boy who lived there. Bruce's money was on the frat boy.

And, in the corner of the room, tucked against the edge of some blackout curtains, there was Bridgit, leaning against the wall like she was asleep. Now, Bruce took in her details in a way he hadn't before. She looked skittish, even when resting, with a long tangle of hair, and soft features. Cute. Probably needed a way to break out of her shell.

Selina let out a breath when she saw her. All of her tension seemed to bleed away. It made her look kinder. Or, at least, less likely to pull out a pair of brass knuckles and ask you if you wanted to go a round. Bruce wondered if anyone would ever look at him that way.

"You gave me a fucking heart attack," Selina said, breaking the silence, and moving across the room.

Bridgit opened her eyes with a jolt, scrambling up to meet Selina. "Sorry... Sorry, I didn't even _think—_ "

"You don't need to apologize. I just, like, worry, sometimes. Not to be lame." Selina said, smiling again, brighter than Bruce had seen her yet, grabbing Bridgit's hand and entwining their fingers together.

"I don't think you could ever be lame," Bridgit giggled, letting her girlfriend pull her closer.

He was going to get fucking cavities. Jesus.

Selina looked like she was blushing. "Yeah. Well, uh, anyways — I couldn't have found you without _Bruce's_ help."

Bruce smiled, not entirely sure _why_ he was being dragged into their moment, and said, "Hey Bridgit."

"Hi Bruce!" she echoed, looking ridiculously pleased as she turned back to Selina. "I knew you two would get along. You always tell me that I'm too optimistic about these things, but _I knew_."

Selina was still blushing. "Yeah, okay. Alright. You were right. You managed to find the only person at this party who's as big of an asshole as me."

Bridgit looked affronted. "I think you're both sweet."

Despite himself, Bruce snorted.

Before her girlfriend could argue further, Selina wrapped an arm around her waist and tugged her closer. "I don't know about you two, but I could really go for Thai right now."

"What about Ivy and Ecco?" Bridgit asked, her tongue poking into her cheek.

"They'll be fine on their own. You know how they are. Besides, I thought you wanted me to make new friends. This is me making a new friend — Bruce."

"Well," Bridgit said, a smile pulling on the corner of her lips, as she turned to look at him, "Thai sounds good to me."

Bruce couldn't help but smile back.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always appreciated! 
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr @pennysworths. Also, now that its summer I have the time to take prompts, so if you'd like to send me any, that would be cool.


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